Ink Etched On Bleeding Wounds
by c-cruxe
Summary: On the first anniversary of Harry's death, Ginny hopes a tattoo will hide her scars. It doesn't, but she loves it anyway.


_Ink Etched On Bleeding Wounds_

_I love. I have loved. I will love.  
>-Audrey Niffenegger<br>(The Time Traveller's Wife)_

I hold onto him and I believe.

I imagine a house, a beautiful house with a beautiful garden in a beautiful place, and I imagine that I am outside, sitting by one of the rose bushes, watching two young children – our children, fixtures of a hopeful imagination but I believe, believe, _believe _and they are not so inconceivable anymore – laugh and chase one another. There is a girl, a daughter (we will name her Lily, after his mother) with his hair and my eyes. She is four and her brother, James (named after his grandfather), a few years older, runs after her, snapping his arms together as though he is a crocodile.

He is there – the dream is not complete without him, for he is a foundation, the support, and I know he will never falter – and he smiles a true smile as he returns from the kitchen, a tray of snacks and ice cold drinks in his calloused hands. The children run to him, Lily shrieking with laughter and James chuckling quietly to himself. I am content to watch; I am content to imagine and I am content to stare and stare and stare.

But I do not.

A gentle hand shakes my shoulder. There is a woman – Hermione - and she looks down on me and the look of concern on her face is startling.

"Hermione?" I ask but she shakes her head. She does not speak for a moment.

"Ginny, you need to come away. He's gone, Ginny." She takes a deep breath, steadying herself. "Harry's dead."

The illusion shatters. A crack forms in the centre and it rips apart at the seams – how can it stand without its foundations? – and it fades in a flash of crushed hopes and broken dreams. His body is in my arms, still warm and the blood from his head wound is still congealing. I cannot believe anymore. I cannot imagine. He is gone, now a memory of before and Lily and James, they will never be.

Someone is screaming. A raw, primal scream. I want to look around, tell them to stop but there is no one around except for me, Hermione and Harry's body. But it is I who is screaming, I suddenly realise. And I cannot stop.

I hold onto him – his body slowly cools and he is dead but I hold on nonetheless – and wish that I could believe once more.

* * *

><p><em>I won't ever leave you, even though you're always leaving me.<br>-Audrey Niffenegger  
>(The Time Traveller's Wife)<em>

His memory is like a drug. I long for it, sitting by his grave as the night turns old and dawn rises. I trace his gravestone, next to his parents that will never have grandchildren, and let my finger tips run along the engraved words that I know by heart. I whisper them soundlessly; mouthing his name sends a thorn through my heart but I mouth it until I am crying and his name is all I have left, all that holds me to reality.

Sometimes I talk to the hard, cold stone. I mumble, I rage, I scream, I wonder, I profess, I ramble, I do whatever is necessary, to me, at the time. Other times, I just sit there. I stare at the ground, hoping that if I stare hard enough, he will rise once more and the dreams that should've been, but weren't, will happen.

The hope always leaves me disappointed, but I cannot bring myself to lose faith in someone as reliable as Harry Potter.

The sun is rising and soon it is time to leave. They do not know I visit; they think I do not wish to see him but his memory is like sanity and I need it like I need air. I need him. I will not abandon him, even though he has left me. But our separation will not be permanent, I am certain. One day in passing, we will meet again and I will tell him stories of little children chasing another in a beautiful garden of a beautiful home, of happy mothers and perfect husbands, and he will smile.

For now, though, we must part. I walk away slowly and I look back constantly, as though he will suddenly reappear. He does not.

It doesn't matter. I will be back tonight.

* * *

><p><em>We laugh and laugh, and nothing can ever be sad, no one can be lost, or dead, or far away: right now we are here, and nothing can mar our perfection, or steal the joy of this perfect moment.<br>-Audrey Niffenegger  
>(The Time Traveller's Wife)<em>

Hate is an ugly word. I write it on parchment with a nearly broken quill and it is not neat, but blotted and scruffy and the word appears even worse in this light. Four letters, forming one syllable that feels neither at home nor strange in my mouth. It is just a word but it is a strong word.

I've been told that hate is on the same coin as love, just on the other side. I can understand. Sometimes I hate him, his beautiful eyes, his need to always save others, his long, bony fingers that traced my skin so delicately… (I am certain that the utter loathing I feel in those moments is definitely definable by hate) but I also love those things. He was simply Harry and the negative always gets me - was, was, was – and I wonder if it would be better to forget.

But then he speaks, his voice will be gentle and he will say 'I love you' and he will mean it. I was always a fool for him, even if it is only a memory of him.

The past tense strikes again. I ignore the pain, push it to the back of my mind and focus on now. I am at his grave again; it is snowing. The snow settles on my hair, on my clothes, the ground, his grave. I wonder if we would've danced in the snow. Would he have kissed me under the moonlight? Had he kissed me under the moonlight? I do not remember. There is so much that falls through fading memory, even though I try to grasp it but it's like catching water in a colander – impossible. His smile remains with me, words spoke softly in days long since lived and lost, touches felt and never forgotten.

It is not enough. I tell him this. He does not respond. Resent wells within me and I can't remember whether I'm supposed to love him or hate him. I suppose it doesn't matter, does it? He cannot hear me (I wish he could).

I laugh and cry, a strange sound of confused chuckles. Bitterness fills me; I choke with the intensity. For one moment, I feel human and alive but the moment is fleeing. All that remains is the snow, my tears and his cold, cold grave. This is a moment I will remember, if only for the sudden isolation I feel.

The snow continues to fall. I do not acknowledge it, but I am still crying.

And that is how I stay for several hours – buried in snow and crying. It is a harsh way to spend Christmas (but it is the only way that feels right).

* * *

><p><em>Don't you think it's better to be extremely happy for a short while, even if you lose it, than to be just okay for your whole life?<br>-Audrey Niffenegger  
>(The Time Traveller's Wife)<em>

It has been a year. 365 days. It's certainly been a while.

And yet, really, it hasn't been. What is a year in the scope of forever? What is a year in all the decades of happiness we could've had, had he not succumbed (I allow the bitterness to creep into my soul and Snape doesn't seem so pessimistic anymore)? I visit him, of course, but I do not speak. I try to stare through the ground, as though it will turn invisible if I try hard enough, to see his decomposing body.

_(Are you watching me, up in Heaven, Harry? Do you see what you've done to me? Does it make you cry?_

… _Am I horrible to hope that it does?)_

I do not stay long. As always, I leave with my fingers tracing along the grave's shiny surface, lingering until the last moment and it is then that I look at his gravestone, wondering, wondering.

I wonder how many will visit him today. I wonder if any of them will be sincere, will be sorry for the loss of such a great, great man. I wonder and I wonder. But I do not answer and questions and thoughts and half-formed ideas swim inside my head, jumbled together into a symphony of pandemonium. And still I find no answers.

Chaos, indeed. I hold onto the freedom, allow myself to fly for a moment, riding on the tendrils of hope and love because we all have to fall some time. Enjoy every second, every single fucking moment, and I do. I do.

I did… and now I am settled back into painful reality, where he is dead and I'm still breathing (each breath is another mountain I force myself to climb – maybe one day I'll reach the summit) and I'm not quite sure about much. I remember happiness, a clinging fuzzy feeling that leaves me with an almost-smile, and I associate it with him, my love, my life, my reason. A wound running through my heart, wrenching it apart so blood falls like tears down the middle, continues to weep and still I wonder, I wonder…

My gift to him stays with me forever. Ink etched on a bleeding wound, in hopes that it will heal and blood will seep no longer. It does not but I caress the tattoo fondly. His name, written in his slanted and messy scrawl, stretched over a flying snitch. The golden snitch bearing his name flies up and down my arm, across my back and he is with me always.

When they have all left and night is dawning, I sit by his grave and I remove the bandage covering the tattoo. I do not care for the infections I may get – I must show him. Yes, yes. Light from the full moon, bright amongst a few stars, shines down on the golden ball with its stretched out silver wings and I imagine that somewhere better than here, he is smiling down upon me.

Strangely, it does not make me feel better.

Leaning against his gravestone, almost hugging it, I close my eyes. I am okay. I am okay.

(_I tell this to myself, again and again and again, but I still do not believe._)

I am (not) okay.

_La Finis._

* * *

><p><em>Heh. Hello again. <em>

_Another one shot... I kinda feel like I'm writing the same thing with different words sometimes. It's almost _eeire_. But I hope it's alright. I know the end is kinda crummy - to be honest, I was getting kinda bored with this piece - and Ginny is totally, hmph, wrong? in this but it seems I'm incapable of sticking to cannon. Someone always seems to die, non? _

_Anyway, feedback would be brilliant. Anyone like my Time Traveller's Wife quotes? Damn, that was a good book (the movie was pretty lame in comparison)._

_Much love,  
>DarkeDreams.<em>


End file.
